Score

by Shay Violet

  Score

  Shay Violet

  shayviolet.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Shay Violet

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Also by Shay Violet

  1

  It had been a hectic afternoon, with ten people in the private dining room for hours and hours. I think they ordered everything on the menu at least four times.

  I’d waited on some of them before. Half of them, to be exact.

  They’re a group of ladies who my boss, Miss Sadie, knows by name. According to her, they’re all alumni of Palmetto Women’s College, which is the school I’m slowly working my way through. They have a mini-reunion twice a year here in Charleston, South Carolina, and they always have a meal at their favorite restaurant, Sadie’s BBQ.

  For this reunion, their regular group went from five to ten, as each of them were accompanied by a male counterpart.

  Thank goodness I thought to myself when the group dispersed, and I dragged my exhausted self behind the other waitress, my best friend Mya to clear off that big table. Like waiters and waitresses everywhere, we looked for what we hoped was a generous tip. It was two weeks until Christmas, and I’d be more than happy to see Santa come in the form of a hungry group of patrons at the restaurant where I’ve worked since high school.

  Lying on the table, tucked neatly beneath a plate with a stack of picked-clean ribs on it, was a wad of folded bills.

  The visible bill was $100.

  There were at least five or six more bills folded up, so I figured $53 each for Mya and me, and with what I’d made from my other tables, I’d be close clearing $100 for the day. Not my record, which was $146, but a damn good day, nonetheless.

  Mya reached for the money and spread it across the table.

  I gasped.

  We counted it twice, and there was $1,000 there.

  Ten bills with Ben Franklin and his big bald head and pursed lips staring up at us.

  Mya screamed, and Miss Sadie’s granddaughter Shayla, who did most of the cooking these days, came rushing around the corner.

  “Is everything alright?” Shayla asked. Mya fanned out the cash.

  Shayla smiled at us. “Merry Christmas, ladies.”

  “They paid their bill, right?” I asked. “They didn’t leave this to cover the check?”

  “Oh yeah, you were waiting on those boys from State,” Mya recalled. “When the bill came, and you ain’t gonna believe this one, all five of those men pulled out credit cards. Black cards, platinum cards, Shayla said one of them was a titanium card, whatever that is. Anyway, they all wanted to pay. For everything. And that bill was big.”

  “Yeah, it was,” I said, twisting my back and stretching my arms way up over my head.

  “Miss Sadie put the cards in a mixing bowl in the kitchen, dropped a towel over it, and shook it around. She pulled one out and ran that one to pay for that whole meal. When I took the receipt back in to get it signed and give back the other cards, they were still arguing over who should pay.”

  “So, you mean all this money is ours to split?” I ask.

  “Looks that way to me,” Mya said, scooping up five bills. “Santa is going to be extra good to Keshawn this year.”

  Mya’s son Keshawn just turned three, and he was all in on Santa Claus, Rudolph, and Frosty, even though living in Charleston, he’s never seen snow in person.

  Before it turned out to be a mirage, I scooped up the remaining $500, running through my mind what I might be able to do with my windfall.

  I’d taken eight years to complete five semesters at PWC, and I was close to saving up enough to take another semester the next Fall. This money would allow me to enroll for the Spring, or I could splurge for Christmas.

  Or, the most sensible thing, get caught up on the power bill and replace the bald right rear tire on my beat-up old Camry.

  “Should we split this with Shayla?” I asked. “It’s a lot.”

  “She’ll say no,” Mya replied. “She always does.”

  Miss Sadie opened her restaurant decades ago when a Charleston entrepreneur who was a woman of color was as rare as finding a kangaroo hopping down Broad Street.

  In those early days, Sadie’s BBQ catered exclusively to black clientele. But once word got out about the food, and after the white folks of Charleston got over the scandalous notion of eating where “the help” ate, things really took off. The restaurant has even been visited by The Food Network a few times and hosted mayors, governors, and various other celebrities.

  Dr. King ate here back in the early days, and a team of Secret Service agents picked up a large carryout order for Barack Obama’s team during a campaign stop in Charleston.

  Through it all, Miss Sadie has had countless offers to relocate to “more desirable” locales on and around King Street or to sell her recipes. Still, she’s resisted every overture and remained in the same little building with the same homey atmosphere her customers have enjoyed for so long. The area has seen better days, although they were before my time, she’ll never leave it. And I must admit, my favorite time of year to work is in the summertime when kids from the neighborhood line up for free lunches, Monday through Friday. And these aren’t some scaled-down version of what’s served in the main dining room. If you live in the overwhelmingly disadvantaged area around the restaurant, and you can produce a report card that says you’ve been promoted to the next grade for the Fall, just show up to the side takeout window, and you’ll have a hot meal waiting for you.

  Handing out those meals doesn’t earn me a dollar in tips, but it moves me to tears to see those appreciative smiles.

  Miss Sadie’s daughter, Shonda, then her granddaughter, Shayla, have taken over day-to-day operation of the restaurant. Still, Miss Sadie spends virtually every minute that the restaurant is open each day greeting guests and helping out in the kitchen. People always ask her when she plans to retire, and she tells them the only way she’ll ever leave is when she crosses the water.

  For those of you who aren’t from the Lowcountry, she means she intends to remain at her post until she passes on.

  I have serious doubts as to whether any of us will outlast her. Her energy and passion are inexhaustible.

  “Did those Bulldogs take care of you?” Mya asked me.

  I’d had a table of three guys all wearing South Carolina State hoodies and t-shirts. SCSU was located up the road in Orangeburg, and their mascot is the Bulldog. They ate well, and were nice enough, but they didn’t save much for a tip.

  “Five bucks,” I said. “And two phone numbers.”

  “Oh, girl, that one with the dreads was fine,” Mya said.

  “His name was,” I stalled, fishing in my pocket for the slips of paper with the names and numbers on them. “Carlos. Yeah, he was alright. But Mya, they were… I mean, yeah, he was nice to look at and very polite. But they were kids. They’re current students, you know? I can’t deal with any more guys in their early twenties. The next guy I get involved with is going to be a man.”

  “Then pass those digits this way, girl, because I have no shame about robbing the
cradle when the baby has dimples and biceps and swagger like he did.”

  We laughed and started loading the cart with the glasses and plates.

  “Good luck with Carlos,” I said, handing her his number. “He’ll be pleasantly surprised to hear from you.”

  “Pleasantly surprised or not, he’s going to be getting a call from me.” Sticking out her thumb and pinky finger next to her face, she used a sultry voice, “Hey boo, remember the waitress you gave your number to at Sadie’s? Mmhm. Well, this ain’t her, but this is her best friend, Mya. She said she didn’t think she’d know what to do with a man as fine as you, but she knew I only date models, so she gave me your number. When can we get together, sugar cube?”

  “He is all yours, girl,” I said once I stopped laughing. “Those ladies who just left have changed my perspective a little bit anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” Mya asked, collecting the last of the drinking glasses as I pushed the tables back to where they ordinarily sat.

  “What I mean is, those women piqued my curiosity.” I purposely said the next part with my back turned as I put silverware and napkins in place on one of the tables. “I think I might like to try a little taste of vanilla.”

  “Wait, what?” Mya asked.

  “What?” I asked, “Don’t say you’ve never thought about it.”

  “Thought about hooking up with a white guy?”

  “It doesn’t always have to be about ‘hooking up’ you know,” I countered. “What, do you think all those women in here today were just ‘hook ups’ or flings? One of them was pregnant, and you might have been back in the kitchen, but one of them got proposed to. And the ring was blinding. It was the size of a damn apple. Are you telling me you wouldn’t like one of those?”

  “Be real, girl. Your name, for one thing, okay? Your name is Zaliya. Z-a-l-i-y-a. It’s a pretty name, I like it, but what, you expect some trust fund baby from Rainbow Row to snub his debutantes and take a Zaliya home to meet mom and dad?”

  Rainbow Row was a part of downtown Charleston facing the harbor, a colorful swath of multi-million-dollar homes owned by elite, old money families.

  I waved her off. “I didn’t say anything about living down in the Battery, I’m just saying those sisters in here this afternoon seemed awfully happy with those white guys. That’s all. And don’t tell me you didn’t notice those cars out front. A Bentley? What?”

  “I was partial to that ‘Rari myself,” Mya said, referring to the red Ferrari that had roared in and out of the parking lot earlier. “The sound that engine made was so damn sexy!”

  I high fived her. “Yeah, it was. But the man driving it was sexier!”

  “Zee, what do you think your Daddy would say if you brought home a white man?” Mya asked.

  “Two of my brothers have babies with white girls!” I protested.

  “You know that isn’t the same thing,” Mya countered.

  “Well, if my father actually liked any guy I bring home, it would be a first, whether he is red, blue, white, or black,” I replied. “And Jerriah and Steffon will scare him away anyway, so I might as well try to be happy, whatever that means for the rest of my family.”

  2

  I wasn't allowed to date in high school. Although that policy wouldn't continue once I was grown and moved out, my father wouldn't have minded it if it did. I was his only daughter, his princess. My three older brothers could do any and everything they wanted to, but I was kept on a tight leash and treated as if I were as fragile as a butterfly's wing.

  Two of my brothers, Steffon and Jerriah, both had troubled teenage years that extended into adulthood. They'd run with gangs, and both had done stretches in state prison. Guys who'd shown interest in me usually balked once they met my brothers. If they weren't intimidated by them, my father, Josiah, made sure to let them know how unwelcome they were, and they usually disappeared pretty quickly after that.

  I loved my brothers, my Daddy, and my three nieces, but my family was toxic when it came to me having a relationship. Only my oldest brother, Jovan, posed no threat to me finding a man, and that was because he was a Marine stationed in Hawaii.

  Our mother, Alannah, passed away from breast cancer when I was in elementary school. She cleaned those same houses on Rainbow Row that Mya mentioned earlier, and my dad was a shrimper and oysterman, scratching out a living in the water surrounding the islands south of Charleston where I grew up.

  Neither career came with health insurance, so when she fell ill, she couldn't afford treatment at a traditional hospital. Instead, she went to a variety of root doctors, including my great-uncle, Dr. Wren.

  Root doctors are traditional healers found in Gullah communities in and around the southeast, from Savannah, Georgia, and beyond up into North Carolina. They use herbal remedies to treat everything from the common cold to arthritis to a broken heart. If somebody wrongs you, Dr. Wren or one of his colleagues can "put a root" on that person and bring them misfortune, illness, or whatever is deemed necessary to balance the scales of justice.

  Unfortunately, all my great-uncle's best remedies fell short of healing my mother. It fell to my father to raise four children on his own, something he was ill-equipped to handle.

  I rebounded from losing my mother, and I coped by pouring myself into school and dance. I was a model student and did my best at home to keep up with things like laundry, cleaning, and some cooking, doing what my momma had taught me to the best of my ability.

  Middle school wasn't so bad for me, as it seems to have been for so many people. I had a close circle of friends, I was a cheerleader and an honor roll student, I sang in the chorus at school, the choir at church, and I was excited about high school and the future.

  That all changed during my freshman year in high school.

  By then, my older brother Jovan was in the Marines and serving in South Korea. Jerriah had a job at the paper mill, and he split time living at home when he wasn't bouncing back and forth between his two baby momma's apartments.

  Steffon was a senior, a full-fledged celebrity at school due to being a record-setting running back on the state-ranked football team. As his little sister, I was instantly part of the "in" crowd, and every girl at school who was interested in Steffon, which seemed like all of them, went out of their way to be nice to me to get closer to him.

  He led our school on a magical ride all the way to the state semifinals, and I get a sore throat even now thinking about how loud I cheered and screamed for his team that Fall.

  Once they lost, and football was over, Steffon lost whatever interest he had in school, which culminated in him getting expelled just before Christmas break that year.

  Steffon's teacher, Mr. Gates, confronted him about some missing assignments in front of the class. Steffon told him he wasn't worried about "no stupid worksheets," since he already had college scouts fighting over him trying to get him to come to their schools.

  "How do you expect to get into college when you fail this class, along with the others you've been allowed to pass just to keep you eligible, Mr. Sherwood? Hmm? Because I assure you, now that football is over, teachers who've looked the other way and let you cruise along will expect you to be more serious."

  My brother rolled his eyes, but sat there ready to listen, if not participate, for the rest of the class.

  Mr. Gates, however, had to make one final dig.

  "Maybe if you hadn't missed that block at the end of the game and cost your team a chance at state, things could have gone differently for you."

  Some people in the class gasped, others laughed, and Steffon didn't bite his tongue.

  "What the fuck did you say?" he replied, standing up from his desk.

  The state semifinal game had ended with our quarterback getting sacked when he dropped back to try to throw a touchdown pass that would have won the game. Never mind the fact that Steffon had rushed for three touchdowns and over two hundred yards. Some people blamed him for being out of position on the final play and letting a
defender from the other team come through to smash our quarterback.

  Steffon had been devastated, and he cried for hours in his room after the game once he got home, just as he had when momma passed.

  "If only you'd shown that much aggression against Central," Mr. Gates replied. "Now sit down before I throw you out of here."

  "How you gonna throw me anywhere?" Steffon responded, advancing up the aisle between desks. He reached the teacher and stood toe to toe with the larger man, staring each other down.

  According to the students in the class who had anything to say about it, Mr. Gates shoved Steffon first. Mr. Gates maintained that Steffon threw a punch first.

  Either way, the two of them wound up crashing to the floor cussing, punching, and fighting.

  Two of my brother's football teammates pulled him off Mr. Gates before he did any serious damage, but by then it was too late to save him as a student. He was expelled, while Mr. Gates only received a brief suspension.

  With pay.

  Steffon's coach tried to set him up with an on-line alternative so he could graduate from high school, but after a week he quit, and the college scholarship offers dried up.

  He hung around the house when he wasn't running with friends, getting into trouble. He was saved from serious consequences only because he was still regarded as an athletic hero by the local community.

  Days after Christmas, Jerriah got pulled over on his way home from work one night and was found to have four stolen guns in his trunk.

  On New Year's Day, Steffon got himself locked up on assault charges when he bumped into the mother of one of Jerriah's daughters at a party, and she was with a man who wasn't Jerriah. Steffon beat the man, unleashing all his rage through his fists.